


Potentiality

by MachaSWicket



Series: Gravel [3]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:34:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: Sequel to "Gravel" and "A Long Shot."</p><p>ORIGINALLY POSTED: 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Potentiality

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Marguerite and Philateley, for all the encouragement and the betaing, and to Em Meredith for being a Beta Research Superstar! ;)

It takes nearly a week for her to work up the courage to contact him again.

But when Marie wakes up and turns the calendar to June, she decides it's time. Taking a deep breath, she retrieves her battered cordless phone from its charger and paces the cracked linoleum in her kitchen, rehearsing what she's going to say.

It's stupid, because she knows as soon as she hears Logan's voice, she'll forget her perfectly worded invitation. Still, she pauses by the refrigerator and pulls out a can of Sprite, letting her gaze linger on his familiar scrawl.

Okay, she tells herself. Just dial the damn number. It's no big deal. Really.

Marie glances around her scrupulously neat apartment, proof of her attempts to occupy herself over the past week. It is a big deal. But she's turned everything over in her mind repeatedly.

When she was scrubbing her tub, she resolved never to speak to Logan again, for her own sanity.

When she was sweating under the afternoon sun, cleaning her windows from the outside, she admitted that she still loved him and should at least give him another shot to be her friend, if nothing more.

When she was on her hands and knees, using a scrubbing sponge on her kitchen floor, she realized seeing him was too fucking painful, and she'd be better off alone.

When she was polishing her furniture, inhaling lungfuls of orange-scented polish, she decided to just call him and see what happened.

Every couple of hours, she comes to a different decision. And so she resolves to let fate decide. She'll call him, and if he answers, she'll give it another shot; if he doesn't, she'll walk away.

She's pretty sure she'll be able to walk away from him. Maybe.

Even though it might entail moving to another state. Because the temptation of Logan quietly living twenty minutes away grates constantly on her self-control. A small, insistent part of her wants to crawl into bed with him, damn the consequences, just so she can feel his unique brand of comfort.

"None of that," she mutters, her fingers hovering over the keypad. She can't go into this with sex on the brain. Closing her eyes, she takes what is supposed to be a deep, calming breath, but which feels more like a desperate gasp. Then she dials, and she tells herself that she's not praying for him to answer.

Two rings, and nothing. Marie considers hanging up.

Three rings, and she fights a violent panic when she hears the unmistakable click of the line connecting.

"Yeah," he answers, brusque and businesslike.

Marie lets out an uneven breath and sits down hard on an unforgiving kitchen chair.

"Hello?" Logan nearly barks, and she can tell he's seconds from hanging up.

"Logan," she manages, her voice sounding high and thready to her own ears.

There's a sudden stillness on the line, as if he's holding his breath too, and when he answers, his voice is soft and warm, like liquid chocolate. "Marie."

"Yeah," she answers stupidly. "Um... Hi." She can't sit still anymore; she's up and pacing, from refrigerator to television set.

"Hey," he answers, and Marie cannot think of a single thing to say. After a moment, Logan asks, "How are you?"

Small talk? From Logan? Marie figures he's just as nervous as she is if he's planning to chat about mindless matters, so she dives right in. "Good. Listen, I've been thinking about our..." Her mind goes blank. Their what? Meetings? Conversations? She can't come up with the right word. "Us," she says instead. "About why it's so awkward with us."

Logan makes a wary noise of acknowledgment in response.

"It's too much pressure," Marie says, the words tumbling out now that she's started talking. "You and me, sitting in a bar staring at each other. All there is to do is relive it and wallow in it and I don't think that's helping either one of us. I think--"

"Marie," Logan interrupts, sounding pained. "Don't do this."

"No," Marie corrects him, trying to convey her sense of hope, her sense of optimism. "Let me finish. I don't want to--" It's hard; even knowing how much he wants to see her, it's hard to say the words. "I don't want to just forget about this. About-- about us."

A sigh of relief comes down the line, and Logan says quietly, "Good."

Marie doesn't want to put a damper on his good mood, but she has to be honest. "I don't know if I can ever trust you again, Logan," she says, her tone soft, as if that can possibly cushion the blow. "I want to, but..." She shrugs, ignoring the familiar stab of pain that comes with remembering his brief affair with Jean. "I don't know," she continues quietly. "But I don't want to just walk away, either."

"Okay," Logan answers, and something slides into place inside of her. She's not sure where this can possibly go, but it feels like they're finally making a bit of progress.

"Okay." Marie realizes she's grinning stupidly at her refrigerator, and tries to stop. But this is relief and hope mixed all up together, and the combination is exhilarating. "So, Logan, what have you been doing since you got to New Orleans?"

It takes him a moment to reply, and Marie wonders if he's having trouble with the abrupt change in subject. "Playing poker," he answers eventually. "Drinking."

Killing time in all of his favorite ways, she infers, and she's sure he's left something out. "Fighting?" she guesses, and for the first time since he arrived back in her life, their conversation is almost normal. Instead of every word dripping with anguish and regret, they're just... talking.

"Yeah," Logan admits, his tone tinged with amusement. "There's a bar just outside the Quarter that has fights."

A year ago, Marie would've invited herself along. She would've sat at the bar and watched him stalk around the cage, simultaneously awed by his sheer physicality and a little intimidated by his fierce aggression. And when it was over, he would come to her, sweaty and exhausted and still on an adrenaline high, and they would barely make it to his truck, or to a motel.

She knows if she goes to the fight bar now, they'll be in bed together before she has time to think about it. The sexual attraction between them has never faded, _will_ never fade, but she can't just jump into bed with him, as much as she might want to. And she wants to. Desperately.

She misses him.

"Have you made a lot of money?" she asks, when the silence becomes nearly unbearable. Her voice is a little high and strange again, and he takes a moment to answer. Marie wonders if he's remembering their heated couplings, too.

"Some," he says. "Lost some in poker games, too, so it's shaking out about even."

"High stakes poker?" she asks, already knowing the answer.

"Of course, darlin'," he answers, and the endearment freezes the blood in her veins.

It brings back a thousand moments, the way he held her close in bed, the way he watched her walk into a room, the way he spoke to her in the dark of night, the way his warm breath puffed against the back of her neck as they drifted off to sleep. The chasm opens up again between them, and Marie can't think of a single thing to say.

Logan must feel it, too, because he sighs and says, "I shouldn't have--"

"It's fine," Marie answers, and she wants it to be true. "I should go anyway."

"Marie, wait."

"What?" she asks, stupidly wanting him to make it better. It's petty and small of her, but she's the wronged party, and she's already made as much of an overture as she can. It took almost all of her courage just to dial his number, and she needs him to be the one to make the next move.

"You might be right about the pressure," Logan says. "So come to a game with me."

"A--" Marie blinks. "A game?"

"Sports," Logan explains. "Daytime. A crowd. Something to concentrate on."

In other words, Marie surmises, a distracting activity to get them through the awkward spells. Hmmm... Not a bad idea at all, she decides. Except that it sounds uncomfortably like a date. They'd taken in a few Islanders games when Logan's favorite teams were in town, and one really sucky Giants game, where she'd been bundled up and freezing and he'd been bored by the one-sided game. Not to mention the dullness that is football. "Logan..."

"No expectations," Logan pledges. "Just a way to lessen the pressure."

Marie considers his proposition. A month ago, the thought of spending several hours with Logan would've sent her screaming from the room. Now, she's surprised to realize she's almost looking forward to it. That realization should probably scare her.

"Okay," she answers hesitantly. Then she frowns. "Wait. It's June."

"Yeah," Logan confirms, sounding puzzled.

"I just mean, there's no hockey, no football--" And then she starts to laugh. "You're kidding."

Logan sighs, but she can hear the amusement in his voice when he says, "Yes, baseball."

Baseball. After complaining bitterly about how damn boring baseball is, he's actually suggesting they go to a baseball game. Marie's laughter trails off, but she's still smiling when she says, "Okay, I'm in."

* * *

Marie takes a ridiculously long time deciding what to wear to the Zephyrs game. Not only is it _not_ a date, but Logan's seen her naked repeatedly and she knows he'd like to see her naked again, so it's not like she needs to dress to entice him. Still, she has that delicious anticipation as she scans her wardrobe, finally settling on a modestly tight, long-sleeved t-shirt and her most flattering pair of jeans. Event-appropriate and not really all that date-like attire, she decides with an approving nod.

Still, she tugs on her knee-high black leather boots underneath the jeans, just to make him sweat.

Since Logan lives a lot closer to the ballpark, she picks him up at his place. Logan, wearing a really flattering black t-shirt, his battered jeans, and the giant, rocky mountain belt buckle he knows that she loves to mock, is waiting at the curb. He leans into the open window on the passenger side. "Hey."

Marie swallows her nerves and arches an eyebrow. "You planning on getting in?"

Logan glances around the interior of her car. It is, like the rest of the vehicle, serviceable at best, dingy and banged up in places, and practically radiating heat in the summer sun. "My truck has air conditioning," he points out.

She's relieved he didn't suggest the bike, because she'd be seriously torn. It'd probably be as bad an idea as going to watch him fight, though, because feeling Logan's body between her legs, even in such an innocuous situation, would be more than a little overwhelming.

The truck, though, she can handle, even if it does remind her fondly of the truck he'd been driving in Laughlin City. Marie jerks the transmission into park and turns off the car, rolling the windows most of the way up before exiting. As she walks around the front, she can feel Logan's gaze sliding down her body, all the way down to the heeled boots.

It's barely audible, but she could swear he actually growls. Marie bites back a smile and glances over at him as they walk up the driveway, around the side of his building. "So. The New Orleans Zephyrs versus the Columbus Clippers?"

Logan shrugs. "I'm rooting for Zephyrs. Never did like the Yankees."

Marie glances over at him. "The Yankees? What do they have to do with this?"

"The Clippers are a farm team for the Yankees," Logan explains. When she continues to stare blankly at him, he adds, "A minor league affiliate."

"Ah," Marie says, drawing on her vague sense of baseball. "Minor league. That makes sense. Of course, you only dislike the Yankees because you're like to be contrary," Marie remarks, "and you were living in New York." It's out of her mouth before she can think about what she's saying, and she's terrified she's managed to kill the new, easy rapport with a reminder of what they both left behind.

But Logan merely shrugs. "Nah," he answers, opening the passenger side door for her, another odd, courtly gesture that should be incongruous, given the fact that it's _Logan_. Somehow, it seems natural when he does it. "They wear pinstripes. I'm not a fan of pinstripes."

Marie laughs as she slides into his truck. He walks around behind the truck, denying her the opportunity to stare at him as he goes. Damn it. She settles in, her nervousness starting to dissipate. She's sure they'll stumble a few times today over the rough stuff, but if they can learn how to talk to each other again without one or the other of them ending up in tears (okay, probably it would be her ending up in tears), she'll consider it a blazing success.

The ride to the ballpark is brief and mercifully cool, thanks to Logan's air conditioning. Honestly, the truck's so old and decrepit, Marie's surprised it has a functioning A/C unit. She tilts the vents toward her and revels in the sensation of sitting in a car without sweat trickling unrelentingly down her back. Still, the glass of the window is warm to the touch, and the sun sparkles brightly in the early afternoon sky. If it were ten degrees cooler and about 25 percent less muggy, it would be a truly gorgeous day.

Logan parks and they head into the small stadium. Marie's amused by the sheer number of fans wearing Zephyrs t-shirts -- she'd never realized the city _had_ a baseball team, even a minor league one.

"You want anything?" Logan asks, indicating the concession stands with a tilt of his head. The scent is overwhelming -- popcorn, hot dogs, and beer -- and every cup and food container has the team logo on it.

Marie considers, glancing up at the sun-bright sky. "A beer," she decides. It's hot and she should drink water, not alcohol, but she doesn't care. She doesn't want to be practical today.

Practical, after all, would be sitting at home, shutting Logan out of her life.

Logan buys their drinks -- more date-like behavior that Marie studiously ignores -- and they make their way to their seats. Aside from a couple high school matches played on ratty old fields, Marie's never been to a baseball game. As they emerge into the stands, the brilliant green field practically glitters in the sunlight, marked with bright white lines and dirt patches groomed into various geometric shapes.

"It's beautiful," Marie murmurs, and Logan glances down at her, visibly amused.

"It's grass," he answers.

Marie grins, conceding the point. "But it's so _green_ and their uniforms are so _white_ ," she answers as the Zephyrs run out onto the field to healthy applause.

Logan shakes his head at her, a bemused look on his face. "We're up here," he says, pointing to the cement stairs to his left.

Their seats aren't terribly close to the field, but once the foul balls start flying in their general direction, Marie's glad they're in the second deck so she doesn't have to fear for her life. The air is thick with moisture, and the heat drains Marie of whatever energy she might have had. She's a little bit in awe of the way the players are able to run around, because all she wants to do is melt into a little puddle.

Marie pays only occasional attention to the game, as she and Logan discuss a variety of subjects. She fills him in on the Professor and the rest of the X-Men (with the obvious and uncomfortable exception of Scott and Jean, who, according to Jubilee, have broken up for good). Still, it's a relief to be able to talk about the X-Men without flinching, since it's such an important part of the past they share.

The game is slow and intermittently exciting, as the Clippers score four runs by the sixth inning and the Zephyrs seem stuck at three. The sun drops, finally, below the edge of the stadium, casting a cool, refreshing shadow over their section.

In the utterly boring sixth inning, Logan tells her about the time he spent in Japan, and how the only professional baseball game he's ever seen -- before today -- is the Yomiuri Giants versus the Yakult Swallows. "It was boring there, too," Logan concludes, glancing down at the field as the Zephyrs end the inning with a player standing on third.

Marie's in the middle of a story about the crazy woman in one of her classes who would interrupt the professor to ask questions laced with conspiracy theories and wild assertions when everyone around them stands up.

Marie frowns, glancing at the people stretching ostentatiously all throughout the stadium. "What's going on?" And then the crowd starts to sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame, and Marie's eyes widen.

Logan leans closer. "Seventh-inning stretch," he murmurs, his breath warming the side of her neck.

Marie shivers, just a little, and whatever amusement she'd been feeling disappears with the flush of arousal. "Ah," she manages, carefully focusing her gaze on the large scoreboard flashing the words to the song, as if the stadium were one big karaoke bar. "This is ridiculous," she decides.

"This is baseball," Logan answers, with more than a little bit of derision in his voice. "You wouldn't catch a self-respecting hockey fan singing some stupid song in the middle of a game."

"But going shirtless and covered in body paint is so much classier," Marie comments with a wry grin.

Logan glances down at her. "I said _self-respecting_ hockey fan. You really think I'd wear body paint?"

"Uh..." Marie's brain short circuits for a brief, glorious moment in which she imagines Logan shirtless, ignoring the part about the body paint entirely.

Smirking, Logan buys another round from the roving vendor, and by the beginning of the ninth, Marie is leaning against him, the plastic armrest digging into her side. The crowd in the stands has thinned considerably, as the home team seems determined to lose the game.

The first batter for New Orleans whacks the ball hard and ends up on second base. Logan shifts, sliding his arm around her shoulder, which feels good, even in the heat. It's surprisingly comfortable, and for the first time, Marie can just _be_ with Logan without the thought of just _how_ they'd screwed up a good thing intruding every other second, making her miserable.

She's still hurt and she's still angry, but for the first time, she actually believes she's going to heal from that pesky broken heart. And she's starting to believe that it's possible she and Logan might recover.

"Marie?"

She's lost in her thoughts, and his voice startles her. "Huh?" she asks, looking up. And Logan's face is so close, his hazel eyes staring down at her. She stops breathing, the moment lengthening as they stare at each other. She knows, somehow, that he won't move, not after her reaction when he kissed her in the street.

It's her decision, and she really is conflicted. It's a bad idea, a horrible idea, but she loves him, and she drifts closer, her eyes slipping shut as their lips meet.

Logan is tentative, barely moving, letting her take the lead as she lifts a hand and cups his stubbled cheek. His grip on her shoulder tightens, urging her closer. Marie thinks about what he did, thinks about how it ended, but mostly she thinks about how it feels now, how it feels _right_. She deepens the kiss, tasting the bitter hops of beer as his palm lands heavy on her knee. Her free hand curls into the warm fabric of his t-shirt.

The crowd roars, and she wonders, absurdly, if they can tell just how damn good this kiss is. Because, yeah, definitely worth a standing ovation or two.

The spark between them ignites, and Marie tenses, feeling her control start to slip. She can tell things are about to spin out of control, so she pulls back slowly, pressing a final, chaste kiss to his lips.

Logan stares down at her, breathing a little heavily, and the world around them shifts back into focus. Marie glances down at the field, where the Zephyrs are jumping around in a big, white-clad crowd near home plate. She frowns, glancing at Logan. "What happened?"

Logan actually grins down at her, one of those rare, genuine smiles. "I have no fuckin' idea."

She laughs, leaning her forehead on his shoulder as he squeezes her briefly, then loosens his grip. Marie sits up straight, feeling the blush on her cheeks from the heat and from his proximity, and glances at the scoreboard. "Wait -- is the game over?"

Logan follows her gaze. "Five-four, Zephyrs. I guess someone hit a home run."

Marie considers about four different jokes about home runs, but she's still not comfortable enough with him. They're feeling their way back to each other, and she knows rushing full tilt into bed -- however appealing the idea might be, considering the way his fingers are squeezing her thigh -- will not help.

They sit together for a few more seconds, both reluctant to break this tentative connection, then stand to leave. Exuberant Zephyrs fans clog the exits, but Marie and Logan slip past and make their way to his truck.

She feels like a teenager as they drive back toward his place, wondering if he'll reach over and take her hand, wondering if he'll kiss her goodbye. The late afternoon sun nearly blinds her, and she turns her gaze away from the road, settling it conveniently upon Logan, bronzed by the light. She studies him unabashedly, the familiar profile, the stubborn stubble along his jaw, the truly impressive biceps, the surprisingly delicate fingers.

To Marie's relief, she can finally look at him and not imagine his body entwined with Jean's.

Most of the time.

She has a feeling it will take a lot longer to relegate that particular horrifying image to the dustbin, but at least they've made some progress.

Logan pulls the truck into his driveway and parks, shutting off the engine and glancing over at her. "Baseball's pretty damn boring," he declares.

She gives him a half-smile. "It has its moments."

With a nod, Logan opens his door and steps out, meeting her at her door as she slams it shut. The awkwardness between them resurfaces as they wander toward the street. Marie concentrates on digging her keys out, then slows as they reach the curb. She takes a deep breath and looks up at him. "Thanks," she says. "Baseball was a good idea."

Watching her closely, Logan nods. "Yeah," he answers. He glances down at the pavement briefly. "I am sorry," he says quietly.

It hurts, even this little reminder, but she's strangely proud of him for saying it. Even though she's known since he showed up at her apartment that he really is sorry, this is the first time his apology feels like it's something she might be able to accept.

"I know," she answers.

They stand there staring at each other for a long moment before Logan reaches slowly for her hand. Marie tangles her fingers with his and squeezes briefly. "Give me a call," she orders, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

Logan's free hand threads through her hair, holding her close as he prolongs the kiss. When he pulls back, he releases her hand and steps back. "I'll call you."

Marie smiles at him, ignoring the familiar burn in her cheeks, and moves around the car. She unlocks the car door and slides into the overheated interior with a groan. Rolling down the windows, Marie leans over until she can see him. "Next time, I want to see you sing the song," she tells him with a mischievous grin.

Logan snorts, but she can tell he's fighting a smile. "Not likely."

Marie shrugs, unconcerned. "A girl can dream."

Moving closer, Logan leans his elbows against the passenger window frame. "If that's what you're dreaming about, maybe you need to reconsider your priorities."

Her blush deepens, and Logan smirks at her as he moves back from the car. Marie shifts into drive, keeping her gaze on him. "I never said that was _all_ I was dreaming about," she says, then she sits up and pulls away from the curb. She grins to herself as she catches sight of him in her rearview mirror, staring intently at her car as she drives away.

Definitely this is better, Marie decides. And maybe, just maybe, it has the potential to be right again.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Yes, that is a gloss on ALCS Game Four. I'm so not right. ;) Though I did use all real teams:  
> New Orleans Zephyrs http://www.zephyrsbaseball.com/  
> Columbus Clippers http://www.clippersbaseball.com/  
> Yomuiri Giants http://www.giants.jp/G/person/  
> Yakult Swallows http://www.yakult-swallows.co.jp/
> 
> Enjoy the Yomuiri Giants, Gabe Kapler. ::sigh::


End file.
